Woolwich to Barnes Cray

7 November 2025

My first set of ‘field notes’ from the trail, edited slightly from thoughts jotted down on my phone along the way. It feels good to have begun!

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I start my first ‘official’ walk at the Woolwich Ferry. This is the closest point to me in terms of accessing the path, a mere 20 minute bus ride from my home. As I arrive at the river, a man stops me and says, “If you keep going that way, you get to Erith”. I tell him that it’s where I’m headed. He continues to mumble in my direction as I turn, and begin.

On the bus, and within the first 15 minutes of setting out, I hear people speaking Spanish. Eres caminar. (You are walking). Vale. (Okay). I see a boat on the river emblazoned with the words GPS Iberia. Spain is here, on a grey London day.

I see the planes taking off from London City Airport, and hear the lap of the tide for the first time as I get to a point where it is low enough to hit sand. Bikes and shopping trolleys protrude from the sludge, like strange sculptures. Traffic cones, bricks, tires and other detritus. The seagulls pick their way around the edge of these obstacles, leaving temporary footprints.

River sculptures

It is a mild, grey Friday morning in November, and I have the trail mostly to myself. Just a few runners and dog walkers. After half an hour the paved river path gives way to a gravel track, and I see my first England Coast Path sign. Maybe this is the true beginning. As I stop to take a photo of the sign, I’m overtaken by a man wearing a black pleather jacket, the tips of his hair frosted pink. I slow down, not wanting to walk side by side.

Leaves flutter down from overhead, caught in the breeze. I see what I think are rose hips - dusky pink jewels that adorn the trees next to the river. Later, I find out they are hawthorn. I spot the odd, tenacious blackberry in the bracken and wish I could make a kenzan arrangement from these autumnal treasures. I think that I’m taking too many notes and photographs, not walking as I should be. And then I think, there are no shoulds. This is my walk, exactly as it is.

Autumn glory

The riverside apartment buildings grow more dilapidated and less shiny, the further I get from the centre of Woolwich. A man walks behind me, and he’s coming up fast. As he passes, I see his backpack. Out ahead of me he swings both of his arms at his side, like a child would. He’s just another walker, like me, and I don’t like the instinctual frisson of anxiety I had as I sensed his presence.

I hear the muffled sound of a phone alarm but it isn’t obvious where it is coming from. Shortly afterwards, a quiet voice. I notice a dark green tent - out in the open but somehow camouflaged. I wonder about the people who make their home along this river - indoors and out.

Not long after, I come across an older man with two fishing lines cast into the river. I want to ask him if he’s managed to catch anything, but hesitate. I like the way that walkers often smile at each other. But I feel tentative about it, here. The people who pass seem wrapped up in their own things. It’s not the place for a beautiful stroll, after all. I half smile, and half keep my head down, unsure what’s best.

My nose wrinkles. I must be approaching the Crossness Pumping Station, the Victorian-era sewage works plant. There is a modern facility next door, even though the old station has now been decommissioned and opened for public visits. This is about as far as I have gone along this route in the past. I expected to find the part that I’d done before boring. But last time I did it, I was in a different place. It was a ‘chance and choice’ walk I took to unlock something, during a period of feeling stuck in various aspects of my life. That walk rattled the bars, a little, but didn’t answer any of the burning questions I had at the time. Today isn’t a bright summer day, and as I approach Crossness, it starts to drizzle. But after years of upheaval and change, I feel at peace in myself. Adelante. Onwards.

Two cyclists pass me and we smile and nod. The woman says, cheerfully, “Morning!” And then corrects herself as she speeds past. “Afternoon, actually”. I look at my watch. 11:45am. There is something timeless about being on the trail. I feel like I’ve been walking for hours. But it has barely been two.

There are some paintings at intervals along the concrete wall that separates the sewage plant and the river. Old fashioned pictures of river life. Even in the most industrial of places, creativity. A little further along, there’s a mural to celebrate the wildlife in this area. I’ve seen ducks and seagulls and parrots and pigeons so far. I know there must be a whole world that is invisible to me. Yet other things become more visible, on walks like this. Things that are unusual or out of place. The rubbish on the side of the path. Cables that lead to unexpected places. Lampshades in the river.

Art and ephemera

My watch beeps on the 10km mark. A flock of pigeons flies at me, startled from their perch on an overhead walkway connected to the Erith Oil Works. Our economy has become so intangible in so many ways. So I love to see and hear the signs of industry along the London riverside. Tarmac being carried by boat, and old warehouses that hold small mountains of gravel. Shipping containers waiting for cargo, and big logistics hubs. This part of south east London is not beautiful, exactly. But there is something gritty and pulsating here that pulls me. Looking out at the river, I spot the Dartford Bridge, spanning the Thames. Just a little further than I’ll be walking, today.

I have started this walk solo but I meet my mother in Erith where we pause for a sandwich on a waterside bench, and a quick foray into the local shopping centre to find a bathroom, and trail snacks. Gummy bears for me, an Aero bar for her.

The sun comes out briefly as we pick up the route, passing industrial estates as large trucks thunder down the main road past us. We lose the riverside for a while, until a private road for a local sailing club takes us out to the Erith marshes. We can’t identify much of what we see, but the names of local plant life are delightful. Knotted hedge-parsley, narrow-leaved pepperwort, horned pondweed, lesser reedmace, and pink water-speedwell. Oh my!

I’ve stopped noticing so many of the details of where we are and am taking fewer pictures, caught up in conversation. But that’s the welcome tradeoff for walking with others. A shared sense of where you are. And someone to try and prevent you from eating blackberries from the side of the path. (I didn’t take the advice; have lived to tell the tale).

River and marsh

The path out of the marshes is pretty grim and we decide to end the route early and catch a bus back, rather than spending another hour making our way into the centre of Dartford as originally planned. I didn’t need to go there anyway - it is not on the coast, just a convenient place to get a train home from. It is a good reminder at the start of this endeavor that there will need to be flexibility along the way. An ability to respond to the weather, my body, and the walking companions who join me. That is okay. That is more than okay.

From start to finish

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